


Whistle in the Woods

by MothTale



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bad end, Deaf Clint Barton, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Ghost Stories, Horror, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt Thor (Marvel), Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Madness, Mild Gore, Protective Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Suicide, Team Dynamics, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-06-29 16:25:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15733125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MothTale/pseuds/MothTale
Summary: After a routine mission the Avengers crash land in a forest somewhere in Europe. No big deal, they just have to sit tight for a while. But there's something else in the woods with them. And it's getting closer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do a horror themed fanfiction, since I really love non-horror fandoms ending up in horror movie situations. I hope you enjoy~

It had been a straightforward, middle-of-the-range sort of mission. A Hydra base in the mountains. A secret weapon nearing completion. A generous helping of masked grunts.  


They really hadn’t needed Thor, but he’d been around and it seemed unfair to leave him out on the basis of overkill. The same went for Dr Banner.  


The base was high up, shrouded in forest, and hours from the nearest town. It was perfect for letting off a little Hulk and demi-god steam. While Thor and Hulk worked distraction, Tony and Steve cut a path to the weapons chamber and Natasha flushed out any remaining Hydra agents. Clint had taken up perch on a relay tower, adding an extra pinch of chaos for the grunts fighting outside.  


‘Got some runners. Three of them, heading out through the second hangar. Getting into two UTVs.’  


There was a faint boom. A soft grunt of satisfaction.  


‘Just the one now. Heading east, up the mountain. Anyone close?’  


Natasha put a hand up to her earpiece. ‘I am.’  


She heard Steve reply as well, as she hurried towards the hangar. In the distance she could hear the roaring of the Hulk and the desperate sound of automatic rifles. It almost didn’t seem fair. There had been fewer personnel than Natasha would have expected for a facility of this size. Perhaps, with their project nearing completion they had decided to scale back.  


The second hangar was mostly intact, not having borne the brunt of a Hulk-Thor tag-team assault yet. There was some fire, mostly concentrated on a buggy near the mouth of the hangar. A pair of lightly burned Hydra scientists were secured to a nearby railing.  


Captain America was inspecting a motorcycle.  


‘Room for two?’ Natasha asked, slinging her leg over the bike and sliding into the seat behind him.  


‘Just don’t let go.’  


Steve opened the throttle and they lurched out of the hangar, down the runway and veered off towards the dirt track which led higher up the mountain. The trees closed over them. Natasha could still hear her teammates over the comms – Tony was almost done dismantling the weapon, Clint was trying to find another perch following an accidental Hulk smash to his tower and Thor seemed to be having a great time if the booming laughter was anything to judge by.  


It didn’t take long for them to catch up with the second buggy. Natasha had to rely on Steve for this piece of information. With his broad shoulders it was almost impossible to lean past him sufficiently to get a look at the road ahead, especially if she wanted to avoid having her head taken off by branches.  


‘He’s not stopping,’ said Steve.  


‘I’m feeling charitable, so I’ll lend you guys a hand,’ said Tony.  


‘What about helping me out down here, Stark?’  


‘Don’t be greedy Legolas, you’ve already got two guys all to yourself.’  


‘Well, they don’t treat me right. Did you see what they did to my perch? Ungrateful ba—’  


‘Necessary chatter only guys,’ said Steve. ‘There’s a straight bit up ahead. I’m gonna try and get alongside.’  


Natasha shifted herself in readiness to jump from the bike to the buggy. A Bite to the neck and she could snatch control of the vehicle and bring an end to the chase and the mission.  


They were almost in position when the buggy swerved off the track and into the trees, hitting one and rolling several feet down the slope. Steve brought the bike to a screeching halt. The Hydra scientist clawed his way out of the twisted metal and shot further into the woods. He was bleeding. Natasha frowned. He couldn’t really think he could outrun a supersoldier and a master assassin, did he? Or did he have a back-up plan? Natasha sprang off the bike. She was ahead of Steve, for about ten seconds, and then he overtook her.  


The scientist had come to a dead-end, a sheet of rock in one direction, a steep drop in the other. Steve had him cornered before he could turn back to try another way. Steve was asking him to come quietly. Natasha kept a close watch on his face. There was something there she didn’t like – something apart from the usual Hydra sheen; that mix of arrogance and smug delusion – something she’d seen before, but not for a long, long time.  


The scientist was stepping back, not towards the ledge but towards the rock, and Steve was relaxing his guard. Natasha would talk to him about that later, maybe hammer the point home with a sneak attack.  


The man had his fist raised slightly, something clenched between his fingers. His eyes flicked wildly between the two avengers, and then to the thing he had clutched in his hand. Steve was trying to talk him into dropping it, whatever it was, and slowly moving closer. The ledge was still there, one stride away. The scientist smiled, opening his hand to reveal a whistle. Just a thin tube of rusted metal. There was nothing hi-tech about it, nothing that seemed to indicate it had been tampered with or enhanced with some special offensive quality. Even so Natasha felt her skin prickle. She snatched a throwing disc from her belt and launched it at the man’s arm, just as he lifted the whistle to his lips. He went stiff as the electricity went through him, but then, instead of falling, he smiled. And the whistle was still held between his lips. He moved, jerkily, and Natasha saw what he was going to do. Steve lunged forward, trying to grab an arm or a sleeve, but he wasn’t close enough. His hand fell short a few inches, and the man fell backwards off the ledge, with the whistle still in his mouth.  


-  


‘Well, he’s definitely dead.’  


Tony’s expert opinion was waiting for them at the bottom of the slope. It was an easy descent, just a few paces from where the scientist had fallen the gradient was soft enough for even a child to climb with ease.  


Natasha looked immediately for the whistle. It was not clutched in the dead man’s jaw, nor lying by the body. She scanned upwards towards the cliff face but saw nowhere the glint of metal.  


‘Widow—’  


Natasha turned to face Steve.  


‘Why’d you attack him? I was talking him down.’  


'No, you weren't. He would never have let us take him.'  


Steve looked like he wanted to argue, but she could see the uncertainty there. She felt sure Steve had recognised the look in the man's eyes as well. He'd been in war. Seen horrors. The look it left behind was hard to forget.  


'We're done here, right?' Tony said, glancing between the two of them. 'SHIELD can deal with the clean-up now.'  


Natasha noticed him putting himself between the body and Steve. Eventually Captain America looked away.  


Natasha rode back down the mountain track with him. In her mind was still the image of the whistle, and this time she thought she heard the sound it made as the man put it to his lips. A low, unmusical sound - something she didn't hear with her ears but rather in a dark, lonely corner of her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cursed whistle motif I nabbed from an M R James story.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve insisted on finding the SHIELD operative in charge and telling them about the dead Hydra scientist in the woods. Natasha left him to it and went to find Clint.  


She found him in the quinjet which was their ride back. Bruce was dozing on one of the benches, seemingly oblivious to the noise of Clint and Thor talking in the cockpit of the jet. Clint looked up at her when she walked in. She found herself scanning for injuries - spotting a line of butterfly stitches holding shut a cut on one bicep and a cleaned scrape on his chin. He'd clearly been cornered somehow by one of the medics, or, more likely, one of his teammates, her money was on Thor, had seen blood and manhandled him in the right direction. He saw her looking.  


'Shrapnel,' he explained, pointing to his arm. 'Hulk threw a jeep, I blew it up. In hindsight, I probably should have ducked sooner.' He shrugged. 'How was your high-speed chase?'  


'On a scale? Maybe a four.'  


'It is a shame your opponent took the coward's path.'  


Natasha acknowledged Thor's comment with a short nod. There was noise outside, and then that noise became Tony clanging up the ramp and into the jet. Natasha heard him waking Bruce up, making him give up his space.  


'We just waiting on the capsicle? Speak of the devil...'  


Thor gave up his space in the cockpit so Natasha could sit next to Clint. He didn't really need a co-pilot, but Natasha took advantage of any opportunity to escape the vortex of testosterone contained and compressed in the back of the jet. She liked them all well-enough, but she drew the line at being crammed in with them, sweaty and still flushed with adrenaline, on the flight home. She did like, however, to listen to them talk. There was a kind of comforting predictability about it all - Thor's hearty boom, Stark's scathing repartee, counterpointed by Steve and Bruce's wearier tones. Natasha listened to it as a kind of symphony, tuning out the meanings of the words and focusing instead on the sounds, on the beats between utterances and the way they overlapped. She'd missed having Thor around - he provided the bass, or maybe the drumbeat.  


She felt the first tremor and saw Clint's mouth turn tight. She looked over the instruments but could see nothing wrong.  


They started losing altitude on the second tremor. Clint was scowling at the controls.  


'Hey lovebirds, stop making out up there and fly the damn jet.'  


'Fuck this,' Clint muttered, and he started trying to land.  


'We're still over forest,' Natasha said.  


'I know. But we're go--'  


The jet gave another shudder. Clint shouted for everyone to brace themselves. There was the sound of splintering trees and screeching metal. Natasha heard someone, probably Stark, swearing. She felt weightless, for a split second, and then she was being dragged down and thrown around. She managed to keep her head down and her body tucked in tight but her shoulders still collided with the walls and with Clint. She was weightless again, and then she was falling forward with the seatbelt pulling on her and the noise was like a hissing. The next tree they hit didn't break, and she could see it through the windscreen when she uncurled from her brace position, branches snapped against the reinforced glass. She couldn't see much of anything else, just trees.  


'Sit-rep. Any injuries?' Steve called.  


'What the ever-loving fuck, Barton...?'  


'I am unharmed, friend Steve.'  


'I'm fine. Feeling a bit green, but I've got it...'  


'Yeah, yeah I'm fine. Thank fuck I didn't take the suit off or Point Break would have shattered my legs. Fuck.'  


'I'm fine,' Natasha said. There might be bruises, but nothing seemed sprained or torn. She glanced at Clint. The cut on his arm was trying its damnedest to bleed despite the stitches, but he didn't have any obvious injuries. Everyone was ok.  


'I repeat, what the fuck Barton?'  


Stark had poked his head into the cockpit.  


'I don't know...' Clint mumbled, and he was still squinting at the controls in front of him, hands hovering over them.  


Stark seemed surprised by the lack of witty response.  


'So what happens now?'  


'We wait.' Clint shrugged. 'I sent a distress signal. Someone at SHIELD will have picked it up. Can you get out of the way so I can get out of this goddamn chair?'  


Natasha released her seatbelt. In the back Steve had already got the emergency exit open and sunlight was streaming in.  


Clint had managed to crash-land in a dell. Looking up, Natasha could see harsh rock and jagged peaks which, if they hadn't smashed the jet to pieces, would at least have left them in a situation similar to the end of The Italian Job. Natasha wasn't sure if it was skill or luck, but given the general state of Clint's luck she was going to assume the former.  


There was a short drop from the exit to the forest floor. They had a few hours of daylight left, so the decision was made to try and start a fire.  


'Did anyone bring any marshmallows?'  


There was plenty of wood left behind in the trial of destruction the jet had left, and before long they had a reasonable sized campfire, along with a stash of spare wood.  


'I wonder why we've never had a team camping trip,' Stark said, once the the wisp of flame had caught and started to spread.  


'Because camping sucks and anyone who does it for fun is delusional,' said Clint. Natasha happened to agree with him. She didn't end up stuck on rooftops in all weather conditions quite as often as Clint, but it had happened. She'd take a dirty motel bed, indoors, over that any day. And then there was the circus. Tents and bonfires, the stars above. Natasha could see how the association could be made in Clint's mind, and how that would taint it.  


Stark grinned. 'What about you, Cap? Camping, yay or nay?'  


'It's nostalgic, I guess.'  


'I'm going to take that as a yay. Bruce?'  


'I've never really been camping before...'  


'But you're a man of science and science is all about trying new things. Another yay. Thor?'  


'I have spent many enjoyable nights with Lady Sif and the Warriors Three with the moon and stars as our watchmen and the--'  


'Great, another yay. Natasha?'  


'I'm with Clint. Why anyone would give up a perfectly good bed in order to sleep beneath a scrap of fabric, is beyond me.'  


'Well, the people have spoken. Democracy works. When we get back we're going on a team camping trip.'  


'I can't wait.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So stuff has actually started happening. Next chapter will probably be up in a few days.


	3. Chapter 3

The air was growing colder now that a thin layer of cloud covered the sun. It was not the type of cold which bothered Natasha - it had nothing on a winter night in St Petersburg - but she was grateful for the fire nonetheless.  


'How long does a SHIELD rescue usually take?' said Stark.  


Clint shrugged. Natasha could tell he was irritated, most likely by the crash, and would continue to be until he knew the cause.  


'It shouldn't take more than a few hours,' Steve said. 'What's the matter Stark? Getting bored of the great outdoors already.'  


'No, just plain bored in general. Well, we've got a campfire, so how about some campfire stories? Anyone got any rip-roaring anecdotes they'd like to share?' He looked around the fire. 'No?'  


Bruce smirked. ''Maybe I could distract you with the tale of the time I fell into the water and was almost eaten by a hammerhead shark.''  


He looked disappointed at the array of blank faces.  


'Indeed, tell us. I wish to hear how you bested such a beast,' said Thor, leaning forward.  


Bruce shook his head. 'It's a reference to a tv show...never mind.'  


'Well that was a bust. How about ghost stories? That's another campfire staple.'  


'I know one,' Clint said. Natasha glanced at him. They'd spent a number of long nights together, more than she could count, and they'd told each other a great many things but never ghost stories.  


Clint cleared his throat.  


'So this is a true story,' he began, ignoring Stark's eye roll. 'It happened over a hundred years ago. There was this circus train, and it was travelling through Michigan. It's the dead of winter and there's snow everywhere. They're going fast, faster than they should because the snow is getting heavier and they just want to get to the next town.  


'Well, they go off the tracks. One of the cars goes into a gorge, another two get smashed up but most of the circus is in one piece. So the carnies, they're stuck, right? They had supplies, but most of them are now at the bottom of the gorge. So they build themselves a big fire out of the remains of one of the train cars, and they try to tend to the wounded as best they can.  


'They eat the animals first. The lions, the tiger and the elephant. They even eat the ratty little mutt who goes on with the clowns. But the snow's still coming down, and they're still stuck.  


'One of the acrobats finally dies from his wounds. The rest of them have a discussion. Figure there's nothing else to do. So they eat the acrobat. A few more of them die soon after - they eat well for another week, but the snow's still falling.  


'By now there's only a handful of them left. The ringmaster, two trapeze artists, the strongman and the last, a freakshow performer called Horace.  


'Horace has a parasitic twin, named Hugo. That's his act. Horace will stand with his shirt off, so people can stare at Hugo's eyes opening and closing, seeming to focus then growing vague, at the fingers of his underdeveloped hand wiggling at them, like he's waving at them. Hugo even smiles, but only at his brother.  


'They take a vote. It won't be murder, they say. Horace gets overruled. The strongman has to hold him down while the ringmaster and his trapeze girls try to hack off the chunk of flesh. Horace keeps screaming out his twin's name, before he passes out from the pain and the shock. One of the trapeze artists bandages his side and then they tuck in.  


'The next day the weather starts to change. The snow stops, and the sky clears. They attach signals to the trees and they wait for the next train to come. It does.  


'Horace is feverish, and his fellow performers feel bad but what can they really do. They're just so happy to be saved. They put him to bed, and the trapeze artist who bandaged him up stays by his side. He talks in his sleep, seems to have mumbled conversations with someone only he can hear.  


'That night they all get sick with stomach cramps. The pain is almost unbearable. The conductor thinks they might have something contagious and wants to throw them off, but the ringmaster persuades him not to.  


'The trapeze artist tries to sleep, next to the shivering, sweating form of Horace the former freak, but the pain in her stomach is unending. Horace keeps whispering and her stomach seems to gurgle in response. The pain is so bad. She almost wants to cut herself open just to end it.  


'The next morning the conductor finds the circus performers dead, four of their bellies burst open, their nails bloody and their eyes wide in horror, except for Horace who looks peaceful. There is a bloodstain on the bedsheet next to him, roughly the size of a baby, and a tiny, smeared handprint on his pale, dead cheek.'  


There was silence for a moment. The clouds had moved off, but the sky was turning red.  


'Jesus Christ, Hawkeye. Give us an age rating next time,' Stark hissed.  


Some of the irritation seemed to have gone, and Clint looked distinctly pleased with himself.  


'Hey, you wanted a ghost story. I delivered.'  


Natasha tried not to read into his smile, to imagine a young Clint listening around a bonfire as one of the other carnies tells him the story, eyes locked on the storyteller’s lips so he won’t miss anything. She wonders if his brother is there, by his side and pretending not to be scared, or if Clint is on his own already.  


'Next?' Clint said, still smirking.  


Natasha shifted her position slightly, straightening her back.  


'If Barton's was too scary for you, Stark, I have one that might be more suitable,' she said. 'Once upon a time there was a little girl called Masha, who lived in a little house on the edge of the woods with her father.'  


It had been part of Coulson's Plan to Make Black Widow and Hawkeye Just a Little Bit Less Damaged. It had felt wrong at first, too childish, but Natasha had found herself looking forward to returning from missions, to 'coming-in-from-the-cold' days, to Christmas and all the little anniversaries Coulson created for them, and finding the present wrapped and placed on her pillow. The book of fairy tales had been one of the earlier gifts; brightly coloured and full of illustrations with tales from all over the world. Natasha had glanced at it, before sliding it into a drawer and going to talk to Clint about their current handler's behaviour.  


'Her mother had died when she had been born and eventually Masha's father re-married. Her new mother did not like Masha, she suspected that Masha's father loved the child more than her, and began to set upon a plan to get rid of the girl.'  


She'd found Clint sitting cross-legged on his bed with a book open in front of him, a look of sullen concentration on his face. His hearing aids were out and on the bedside table. He'd put them back in, looked up at her and asked if she'd got one too. He held up the book so she could see the title. The Legend of Robin Hood. With the colours and the size of the print, it was clearly aimed at children, but Clint didn't seem to mind. With his attention off the page his expression had relaxed into something more like contentment. Natasha didn't quite know him inside out as she would in later years, so she had hesitated to label it as happy, but she understood now that that was what it was.  


'One day she told Masha that she would make her a new dress, but to do so she needed needle and thread. She told Masha to go and fetch the needle and thread from her sister, Baba Yaga, who lived deep in the woods. Masha asked the way. Her stepmother told her to follow the nose on her face. Masha asked for food for the journey. Her stepmother gave her a stale crust of bread, a chicken bone with only a scrap of meat left on it, and a tiny pat of butter. Masha wrapped these things in her mother's kerchief and--'  


Over her life Natasha had heard nearly every imaginable sound which could pass through a human's lips. She'd heard death rattles, death screams, pain of every pitch and volume. She'd heard laughter in all its variation; from the sound of children playing to the laugh of the man who thinks he's got you cornered. She'd heard war cries, singing. She'd heard love concentrated down into a name. But the sound which came through the trees at that moment was like none of them.  


She wasn't sure why she was so certain it wasn't an animal, but she was.  


The cry came from some distance away and yet it was close.  


Steve and Tony jumped up, looking for the source. Tony's faceplate went back on. Thor rose with Mjolnir in his hand.  


'JARVIS?'  


Natasha didn't hear the AI's reply - that was for Tony's ears only. Whatever answer he gave Tony stayed on alert, but he didn’t focus down, didn’t zero in on one spot.  


Natasha stayed where she was, coiled and waiting. Seconds passed slowly, stretched like an elastic band. The half-minute mark came with no further sound. Natasha saw her teammates relax by degrees, working down from hair-trigger readiness to mere unease.  


Tony's faceplate folded off again and he looked at them all, as if waiting for one of them to say 'it's probably an animal'. When no one did, he said it himself.  


'Probably a bird. JARVIS didn't pick up anything big. We're good.'  


Natasha held herself back from asking if he'd ever heard a bird sound like that. She threw another handful of sticks onto the fire, stoking it up. None of them mentioned the rapidly setting sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The version of Baba Yaga Natasha is telling is based on the version I read as a child - it's a little different from the more traditional Slavic version, but it's the one I know.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait for this chapter. I've also had to reevaluate how many chapters the final story will be. I'm thinking six at the moment, but that might change.

'Do we have food?' Bruce asked.  


Almost an hour had passed since the 'probably-a-bird' scream. Darkness had settled and all that seemed to exist was their little circle of light. The crackle of the fire covered up most of the nighttime noises, but Natasha still heard the movement of the wind and the call of the wolves lower down the mountain.  


'We have MREs,' Clint said, rising to his feet and heading to the jet.  


'Come off it, Barton. We know all about your secret junkfood stashes,' said Tony.  


Natasha noticed the minute flinch before Clint hauled himself up into the body of the jet and went to rummage around. He dropped a small crate of rations to the ground.  


'Bruce, catch.'  


Bruce held out his hands for the packet of Oreo cookies which landed in them.  


'Stark doesn't get any.' Clint jumped back down and took his spot by the campfire.  


'What? Why? You can't blame me for being observant. Or are you pissed because I out-sleuthed the super-spy?'  


Natasha flicked through the flavour options for the MREs, selected two, and passed the crate on to Steve.  


'With great knowledge comes great responsibility, Stark,' Natasha said, handing one of the ration packs to Clint. He ripped it open without looking, trusting not only that she wasn't trying to poison him but, more importantly, that she would never knowingly hand him lemon pepper tuna or chicken fajita, even as a joke. There were lots of people Clint trusted not to poison him, enough to count on both hands at least, but Natasha was the only person he trusted with his taste buds.  


Tony looked around the group for support. Steve, who knew hunger and the need to secure against a rainy day, even if it wasn't for the same reasons, was giving Tony a mild look of disappointment. Bruce avoided Tony's gaze, munching on an Oreo, and holding the packet out to Thor. Thor seemed oblivious, or maybe not. He thanked Clint before he ate.  


'Darcy has told me of these morsels before. She asserts that they are 'the king of cookie-dom'.'  


'Ok, hand them over or I'll fight you for them,' Tony said.  


Thor grinned. 'I would like to see you try.'  


Before Tony could cut back the scream whipped through the trees.  


This time they were all on their feet.  


It lasted longer, but no longer than a full pair of lungs could manage. There was a pause, a few seconds, and then it began again.  


'JARVIS give me something here. There is something out there, or we're all just going nuts here.'  


He cast out light into the trees. Natasha kept herself taut, but not ready to snap at any broken twig or rustling leaf. She knew the sound of footsteps, particularly footsteps stealthy in the dark. She listened now, but she could hear nothing in the gaps between the screams, nothing but the sound of her teammates panicking.  


'What is that?'  


'Well, JARVIS is telling me nothing's there. So, either there's nothing there, or whatever that screaming thing is it's masking itself from JARVIS's sensors. And that's just ridiculous.'  


'Show yourself!' Thor cried, lifting his hammer as he glowered into the darkness.  


Natasha thought of bats, and echolocation. Of birds and the way they signalled to each other through song. Of dogs and whistles.  


The final scream seemed further away, above them, higher on the mountain. It trailed off, becoming something else. Natasha heard it as a groan before it faded away.  


They kept listening. Natasha kept count in her head. Two full minutes passed before Steve spoke.  


'I say we set up a perimeter. Dr Banner, Hawkeye, try to contact SHIELD. Iron Man and I will sweep the area. Widow, keep watch here. Thor, give us the view from up top. See if there's anything we're missing.'  


They had their orders. Clint gave Bruce a leg-up back into the jet. Tony and Steve set off in different directions through the trees. Thor shot upwards and out of sight.  


Natasha went through the emergency supplies, taking a set of battery powered floodlights and some flares. She looked down towards the cockpit, seeing Clint and Bruce hunched over the controls. She heard static, and little else.  


She set up the lights. With the fire going, she knew she was already illuminated to whatever was lingering out in the dark. More light would not change that fact, and it would give her the chance to see further.  


It was easy to forget how dark the world really was; living under streetlights and where everything that moved seemed to glow. Headlights, neon-signs, windows spilling light, everywhere reflectors and refractors. Out here there was none of that. Natasha looked up and couldn't even see the stars which should have been dazzling; the clouds were back.  


\--  


The sound jabbed through her eardrums, rattling in her teeth and leaving hooks behind her eyes even as she ripped the comm out of her ear and threw it to the ground. The explosion of static had twisted and bucked like a live wire, blasting without warning. The piece of plastic sat there in the pine needles like a snake as she ran to the jet.  


'Clint!'  


She heard growling and a sick sounding moan, along with a high-pitched, needling hum.  


'Hold still! Just let me--'  


Clint was clawing at the sides of his head while Bruce tried to grab his wrists. By the time Natasha made it to them Clint had managed to tear one of his hearing aids out, along with a few layers of skin. She unhooked and removed the other one, pushing Bruce aside. It was still squealing as she held it, and didn't stop when she dropped it.  


'Clint?'  


She kept one hand on his face, keeping his eyes facing her so he could see her lips as she repeated his name. He looked pale and unfocused, wincing as he looked at her.  


'Clint? You good?'  


He blinked. 'Fuckin fantastic,' he muttered, the sound so low and quiet as to be little more than a rumble in the back of his throat. He lifted his hands and started to sign to her, explaining that they couldn't get through to SHIELD. Everything had gone dead just before his hearing aids had revolted and tried to kill him. _We're up shit-creek right now, aren't we?_  


Natasha nodded once.  


'So, we're cut off for now?' Bruce said, trying to sign as he spoke. His movements were slow, but correct.  


'Looks like it,' Natasha said.  


'What even was that? It didn't sound like an EMP weapon,' Bruce said, running a hand through his hair. He crouched down and scooped up one of the discarded hearing aids, still hissing with static. It gave a final grating yelp before it fell silent. 'Could it have--,' he started, then looked at Clint and started signing. 'Could someone have attached something to the jet?'  


Clint shook his head. _I checked. Everything was working fine before we took off._  


'We cleared out that base. No one could have followed us?'  


Natasha swallowed, and thought of the Hydra scientist's eyes as he fell.  


'Nat,' Clint said. _What are you thinking?_  


'The scientist Steve and I chased. I think he set something on us,' she said. _A curse_ , she added in sign, knowing Clint wouldn't question her, would understand. They both had their superstitions.  


'Like what? Some kind of creature?'  


'I don't know.'  


Bruce sighed, tipping his head back. 'What do we do?'  


Natasha opened her mouth to answer. The ground shook. Something heavy had fallen outside. Clint was first to see, and Natasha had almost grabbed him to pull him back when he jumped from the jet to run to the bundle just on the other side of the campfire. Natasha had seen the fluttering cape and thought of thin, membranous wings - had thought the monster had landed and was about to uncurl itself and lunge at them.  


'Thor...' Bruce breathed, scrambling down onto the forest floor and running.  


The demi-god hadn't moved since he had fallen.  


Natasha jumped. In the firelight she could see his face was almost white it was so pale.  


They'd heard no thunder, seen no lightning. There was no trace of a battle in the sky. Whatever had pulled him from the sky, it was as if Thor had never seen it coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapters may take a little while (maybe a few weeks). I hope you'll stick with me until then.


	5. Chapter 5

'He's breathing,' Bruce said as Natasha crouched down next to them. Together he and Clint were checking Thor for visible injuries. Clint palpated his legs, searching for breaks, while Bruce focused on his torso and head.  


Clint sat back. _Nothing_ , he signed. Bruce frowned. Gently he shook Thor's shoulder and called his name. Thor remained unconscious. Natasha looked up again at the sky. It was empty and still black as pitch, pressing down like a lid. Boxed-in, she thought. We're boxed in with it.  


'His pulse is normal - for him anyway,' Bruce muttered, then leaned in and put his ear to Thor's chest. He sat back and tapped Thor's face. Not so much as a flicker of an eyelid.  


'I don't like this...' Bruce said, looking into the woods.  


'Neither do--'  


The pine needles around them rustled. Bruce fell forward as something ripped Thor's body away from them. Natasha shot forward and managed to grab an ankle. Bruce righted himself, growling and bristling, his muscles bulging, and Natasha looked into the trees and tried to see what was pulling their teammate into the dark but there was nothing.  


'Nat!'  


She heard Clint shout half a second before the invisible thing tore Thor from her grip, the sound drowned out by the roar of the Hulk. Natasha ended up on her front with her face near the dirt. Vibrations came from the air and the earth as the Hulk pounded the ground before he took off and gave chase. Natasha stayed still. Her ears felt cottony and still rang. Bruce had transformed near her before, but never that close. She had felt the air moving around him, being pushed out as a below-average sized man became a gigantic mass of aggression. The breeze of it had rippled down her back.  


The choking noise made her sit up.  


Clint lay on his back several metres away, close to one of the spotlights. The sound that was coming out of him made Natasha think of wounded animals, curled up and waiting in suffering for the inevitable. He was trying to move and that was just the kind of idiot he was. The first thing she did was pin him down.  


'Stop moving,' she hissed, leaning over him. His mouth opened and closed, goldfish like, wheezing and rasping. His eyes found hers and he became still. She unzipped his uniform top and started to inspect the damage.  


After a hit from the Hulk at close range, he was lucky to still be breathing - even if it was only with great difficulty. Several ribs were cracked and broken. Natasha ran her fingers lightly over the skin and felt them crunch. She could assume some sort of lung injury, but it didn't seem any of the ribs had punctured it, yet. He gave her a sour look, as she pressed down, and that was reassuring. For the first few seconds Natasha had been sure he was dying - it made people look like children, the fear, when they were about to die.  


He continued to wheeze but his breathing was regular. Natasha helped him to sit up, propping him against a tree, and was relieved to hear him cursing.  


_I'm just winded_ , he signed with shaking hands. _Be fine in a few minutes._  


_No, you have multiple broken ribs. Probably a bruised lung as well. You are not fine._  


Clint didn't try to argue, lowering his hands. He looked off into the woods, at the path cleared by the Hulk.  


_I think you're right about that curse,_ he added.  


At least she didn't have to deal with that old cliche, of no one around her believing and thinking she was going mad.  


Clint coughed. It was thick and wet sounding, grating like a rusty saw. When he stopped his teeth were tinged pink with blood. He leaned over and spat onto the ground, before launching into another coughing fit. Natasha held him to steady him.  


Internal bleeding. Probably something torn or ruptured in his lungs. She couldn't help him, couldn't fix it. He could already be dying, slowly, by inches and she knew help wasn't coming. The sky was so empty.  


Clint rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned back against the tree. He breathed in deeply a few times before he lifted his hands again to start signing.  


_We've got to turn it back._  


Natasha thought at first she'd misread him, that the pain was making him clumsy and he'd used the wrong signs.  


_What do you mean?_  


_When I first joined the circus, there was this fortune teller. She used to complain all the time about this rival fortune teller from her hometown who she said would put hexes on her. Made her joints ache, gave her bad dreams and migraines and all this bad stuff. I walked past her one day and she was stuffing needles in a bottle. I asked her what she was doing, and she said 'I'm turning it back on that skinny bitch.' She'd pissed in the bottle and spit in it and now with the needles, she said, the next time the woman tried to put a curse on her it would get stuck in the bottle and then she'd feel the needles like they were in her own body. I didn't get it, thought she was nuts, but I've got to live with these people so I smile and tell her good luck with that. But six months later, we're in Tennessee and this hunched, bony, little woman turns up at the camp. She's got a face like a hatchet and these big, black circles under her eyes like she hasn't slept in months. Then she sees Helga, our fortune teller, and she starts screaming at her in Hungarian or something, so Helga starts screaming back. Turned into a real cat fight. Hair-pulling, scratching. Helga ripped the woman's shirt off at one point, before she chased her off. It was the woman Helga said was cursing her. After Helga turned her curse back on her, she came all the way from Europe to try to get her to take it off. She said she hadn't pissed in weeks, which is bullshit and impossible but what do I know? And the pain was agony. Helga couldn't stop laughing about it. So, my point, here, is if this is a curse then we can turn it back on the guy._  


_He's dead._  


Clint looked at her. _You have a better idea?_  


'So,' Natasha said, because this was a plan that needed to be said out loud just to be sure she had it right. 'Your plan,' she said, infusing her signs with as much distaste as she could muster, 'is for the two of us to pee in a bottle, fill it with sharp objects and wait?'  


Clint rolled his eyes. _When you say it like that it sounds dumb, sure. And I think it's a bit too late for that. The piss bottle was kinda a preventative measure as far as I could tell. No. What I was saying was we're dealing with magic, right?_ He licked his lips, looking out into the dark which had swallowed at least two of their teammates so far. _So we need to fight back with magic._  


Natasha nodded. She looked away sharply when she heard screaming in the woods. Clint reacted to her movements, trying to get up. Natasha clamped a hand on his shoulder and held him down.  


_Don't move_ , she signed.  


He signed urgently at her, asking what it was.  


_Screaming_ , she answered, and then she found herself hesitating to tell him more. It might have been a trick. It probably was a trick - a trap. The screams could be real, but with the purpose of drawing her out into the dark.  


The old Black Widow would have had no problem ignoring the sounds.  


_I'm going to check it out. Stay here._  


Clint coughed, lurching forward. One hand went to his mouth and Natasha went back to the jet while he was distracted, locating a heavy torch. It would provide a decent amount of light and could double as a rather efficient club.  


'Nat...' Clint shouted, and she knew he would be horrified by the desperation in his own voice. There were flecks of blood on his chin. _Don't go. Bad idea._  


With the torch in her hand she couldn't respond. He signed something about horror movies and rules and splitting up being a terrible idea.  


'I heard Bruce,' Natasha said, and he would have to read her lips or sit and wonder what the last thing she'd said to him had been.  


\--  


She followed the trail of destruction. It was easy enough. The Hulk had left a breadcrumb trail of scarred and broken trees and shallow craters where his feet had been. Natasha looked over her shoulder once, and the light was worse than she'd thought. She could still see Clint propped against the tree, head tipped back as he looked upwards to the sky. She turned away and headed deeper into the woods.  


The fairytale quality of it all was not lost on her. Twenty years too late, here she was, heading into the haunted forest with a purpose.  


Even the insects were silent.  


Men sounded so strange when they screamed - really, truly screamed in agony or terror. It was like they became a separate person, as the pain and fear took over and warped their voices. Somehow she knew the voice she'd heard was Bruce. Or she thought she did.  


She followed the trail deeper, climbed over felled trees. She began to see signs of a struggle. A tree uprooted and discarded, crushed into the ground.  


It ended abruptly in a Hulk-made clearing; a circle of fresh stumps and the thick scent of pine resin.  


The silence pressed in.  


'Bruce!'  


The silence flowed back. Natasha felt a shiver run down her spine. She turned around, shone the light but saw nothing. Nothing but the bark of trees and the impenetrable blackness between them. Her heart beat quicker.  


She trusted her instincts. They'd kept her safe before, helped her make split-second decisions when her training might have led her either way. And right now they were telling her to run.  


\--  


She half-expected the trail to have disappeared, to leave her stranded - it would have made sense with everything else that had been happening. But she made it, back into the circle of light with the crashed jet and the campfire.  


No one else was there.  


Natasha got her breath back and staggered towards the tree where she had left Clint.  


The needles on the ground had been disturbed. She could trace the shape of flailing limbs, saw crescents of dirt gouged out by the heels of Clint's boots as he'd struggled. The marks extended away from the tree for a few metres before they vanished. Natasha felt cold. Icy. She saw where he'd tried to grab onto the trunk of a small tree - there were bits of skin stuck to the bark.  


She clenched her fists. 'Give him back,' she hissed into the woods.  


There was noise in response. A low wail. She covered her ears then, ashamed of herself, dropped her hands to her side.  


'Give him back!' she screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was fun to write. I finally got to try my hand at some Hurt!Clint. I hadn't actually planned to hurt him too badly, but then the opportunity presented itself and I couldn't resist.  
> The thing with the bottle is an old english anti-witchcraft charm. People sealed them up in walls or buried them. Supposedly the bottle comes to symbolise the offending witch's bladder.
> 
> There's one more chapter after this, then an epilogue and maybe an alternate ending. Next chapter might take a few days.


	6. Chapter 6

To get something, you had to give. It was a fundamental law. But Natasha wasn't sure she had anything she could give this thing, nothing it hadn't already been sent to take. It was like her, in some ways. There'd been no use trying to bargain with her, trying to plead or bribe - the deal had been done. Once you saw her then it was already too late.  


Natasha looked up at the sky and waited.  


In fairy tales there was always a solution; strange as they seemed, some way to cheat the certain doom. A kind deed brought with it a reward, something to slow the witch when she was on your tail.  


Natasha looked into the fire, and she tried to think.  


In fairy tales combs could take root and become trees and ribbons could become raging rivers. Jars of piss and needles could turn an incoming curse back on its caster and drive them mad with pain.  


Natasha looked at the jet and got to her feet.  


\--  


It didn't seem like much to ask. A ball of string. Natasha found more rations, a first aid kit, back-up weapons and batteries but no string or cords or rope. In the end she cut up bandages and Bruce's spare clothes into strips and carried them with her back out to the campfire. She selected some sticks from the bundle of spare kindling and got to work.  


It would have been easier if they'd crash-landed in a deciduous forest. With trees like birch or maybe willow, sticks which bent and could be woven. The pine sticks dug into her hands and before she knew it she was bleeding, but that didn't matter. For all she knew it might make it better.  


When she was almost done she stood up and went to the tree Clint had tried to cling to, and peeled off the strip of skin.  


For a first attempt it wasn't bad, but it was recognisably man-shaped and hopefully that would be enough. She wrapped the skin around the torso and bound it there with a bandage strip. She said his name when she had finished, had been saying it in her head the whole time she'd been working. There were probably other things she should have done; drawing circles counterclockwise or sprinkling salt or other such things, but she didn't know them. She was going on instinct.  


She took the effigy, fetish, doll - whatever it was, she took it to the furthest edge of the light. She put it down, just outside, her hand momentarily swallowed by the darkness.  


'Give him back. As he was before you took him. Give him back and take this instead.'  


\--  


She went to work on the next one, while she waited to see if it had worked. Really, she should have done this one first. It was what they always told you in those pre-departure safety films - fit your own lifejacket before helping someone else.  


She cut a lock of her hair and knotted it around the sticks. When she was done she threw it into the trees, saying 'This is me. Your job is done.'  


This time she heard pine needles rustling and then a sharp, dry snap which hit her like shot. She gasped and fell to her knees. But her heart was still beating. She was unhurt.  


She straightened up. Her eyes watered.  


'N-Nat...?'  


She spun around and saw Clint standing, just barely, against the tree where he had left the skin of one of his palms. He was sickly pale, sweaty and shaking. Natasha almost hugged him before she remembered the broken ribs, the bruised lung. He clung to her, repeating her name like a question. She wanted to tell him yes, it was really her, but that thing might still be out there listening.  


She helped him over to the fire and made him sit. Then she looked at him, carefully, looking for any differences, any hint of a wish gone wrong. He looked at her like he was doing the same.  


_Show me your hands,_ Natasha told him.  


He turned over his palms and held them out to her. The right one had been scraped raw. She didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, remembering the words she'd used.  


_Do you remember how you got this?_   


Clint looked down and grimaced. He flexed his hand a few times as if trying to stir the memory that way. Natasha went and got the first aid kit. When they were done talking he could clean the wound.  


As she sat down again he looked across at her. For a moment she was reminded of how he'd looked after Loki, when he'd asked her if she knew what it was like. He made a gesture next to his head.  


_Something--_   


Natasha interrupted. _Human?_  


Clint seemed about to shrug before remembering his ribs and thinking better of it. He repeated the same sign, shaking his head slightly.  


_Something grabbed me._   


He shuddered. If his ribs hadn't been hurting and threatening to puncture his lungs, Natasha suspected he would have drawn his knees up to his chest and hugged them. She handed him the first aid kit.  


_Clean your wounds. I have something I need to do._   


\--  


For the next one she made two figures, one small and one big, and lashed them together with the strips of Bruce's clothes. She was aware of Clint watching her, but he didn't ask what she was doing. She tied additional pieces of Bruce's clothing to the effigies, aware that she had no skin or hair as she'd had for the previous ones.  


'Give him back, unharmed. Let him find his way back,' she said, before rising and casting it into the trees.  


She heard nothing this time, like the first time.  


\--  


She had to get creative for the last three. She made Thor a hammer, or as close as she could manage to one and took ash from the base of the fire to imply lightening. She ran out of sticks halfway through making Tony, and Clint had to sacrifice both his bow string and his arrows, as well as a pack of Skittles from his stash. Natasha used a blue candy to represent the arc reactor in Stark's chest and scattered pieces of the fancier arrowheads, things Tony had designed and made, over it. She said her charm and threw it into the woods.  


She ate the rest of the Skittles while she worked on Steve. When she was done she looked down at the plain, little figure of a man, without either costume or shield, and wondered if it was enough.  


Steve had been there when the whistle had blown. He had been marked like she had.  


She pictured his face as she held the effigy, and an image came to mind of him sketching passersby from a park bench. They'd been incognito, so baseball caps and sunglasses for both of them, and she'd spent the afternoon watching him draw. He'd asked her a few times if she was bored; after the third time she told him no he'd stopped asking and she'd been able to watch the pencil move in peace.  


She could offer the memory, if nothing else.  


\--  


By the time SHIELD came for them they were all together again.  


Thor had been the first to arrive, and then he had left again to look for the others. He had returned with an exhausted, suit-less and damp Tony.  


Bruce appeared, ragged and half-naked, and mumbling apologies.  


Steve hugged each of them, except for Clint who was semi-conscious and got a shoulder squeeze instead, as if checking to see that they were real. He tried to say something to Natasha about Hydra and the whistle, but then Clint's lips were turning blue and all Natasha's attention was on keeping him awake and breathing.  


Once proper medics took over, and Natasha knew Clint wasn't about to die on her, she went back to Steve and told him what she had done, and that it was over. He held her again, and she allowed it, as he told her some of the things he had seen in the woods.  


'It all seemed so real...' he gasped, and she knew he was still stuck there.  


It took some work, to find a paper and pen, but once she had them she went back and put them in his hands.  


'Draw it. Then burn it,' she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope no one's disappointed by the lack of final confrontation with the creature. I kind of had in mind this sort of ending when I started writing. Since the Avengers are so used to fighting, I wanted them to encounter something they couldn't just punch into submission.  
> I did consult an online ASL dictionary at a few points but I have no personal experience with the language, so apologies for any oversights. I did learn that the sign for 'something' and 'someone' are the same, hence Nat's interruption.  
> Next up is the epilogue, which may be up as soon as tomorrow (but more likely Monday).


	7. Chapter 7

Every light in the room was on when Natasha walked in. From the ceiling, to the floor lamps and the bulbs behind the bar.  


'So, I might have to revise my opinion on the team camping expedition,' Tony said from his seat on the sofa. Thor, Bruce and Steve were with him.  


Someone had thought to order pizza at some point, and the boxes were sitting open on the coffee table in front of them. Only one was open and it was mostly intact. Natasha snagged the edge of the box and dragged it over to her, peeling off a slice of lukewarm pizza.  


Bruce had his head in his hands when she first arrived. He now looked up.  


'How is he?'  


Natasha swallowed her mouthful. 'He's gonna be ok.' She paused, unsure if hearing Clint's list of injuries would help Bruce or not. 'He's had worse.'  


Clint was currently sedated in the medical suite, having first christened the newly completed operating theatre Tony had installed. The surgeons were SHIELD, so Natasha didn't have to worry about Tony having poached any hospital staff from the beds, whisking them off to the tower for some no-questions asked surgery before finally showering them with money and telling them to get lost. She could also trust JARVIS to let her know when Clint started to wake up. She didn't want him waking up alone. Not after everything which had happened.  


Bruce didn't look at her, nodding with his head bowed again. Steve was frowning, looking into the mirror-like surface of the windows. The night had caught up with them again.  


'We've got a debrief tomorrow at ten. SHIELD wants to know what happened on the mission, as well as what happened after...' he said.  


Tony shrugged, and it looked more like a flinch.  


'We got stuck in the woods for a few hours. What's to tell?'  


'I almost killed Barton, Tony,' Bruce said in a low voice. 'I--I almost killed him...'  


'Not your fault big guy. Accidents happen.'  


Bruce just looked at him, as if he couldn't understand why he wasn't - why they all weren't - blaming him for their teammates's current condition. It didn't matter to him what his alter ego had intended to do, only what he had done. Bruce looked to Natasha in disbelief - as Clint's closest friend he probably expected her to be the most mad, even if she was hiding it well.  


'Bruce, whatever was out there it got into your head,' said Steve, his voice calm, soothing and believable. 'It got into all our heads--...'  


Tony cleared his throat, but said nothing.  


'...and you're not responsible. Yes, you could have killed Barton, but you didn't. And I don't trust you any less today than I did before.'  


'If I had a drink right now I'd raise it to that,' said Tony.  


'I too,' said Thor. 'And I believe we owe a debt of thanks to Lady Natasha for our safe return here.'  


'You'll make me blush,' Natasha said.  


'Didn't know they taught witchcraft in Soviet spy school,' muttered Tony. Her eyes flicked dangerously towards him. He held up his hands. 'Joking! Jesus, don't turn me into a frog.'  


Natasha smiled. 'Actually, it was Clint's idea,' she said, turning to Steve who was looking at her questioningly.  


'Where the fuck did Birdbrain learn witchcraft then? Wait! Is that how he does it? Haha! I knew no ordinary human could aim like that.'  


Steve glanced at Tony in annoyance and opened his mouth to speak, but Jarvis cut over him to tell Natasha that Agent Barton was starting to come around from sedation.  


'Sleep tight, boys,' Natasha said as she left, knowing most of them probably wouldn't.  


'Tell Barton to bring his broomstick next time we're on the job. No more free lifts from Iron Man,' Tony called after her.  


\--  


A week later and Natasha was on the same sofa with takeout once more spread across the coffee table.  


This time it was sandwiches from a deli down the street and Clint was asleep with his head resting against her shoulder. She was reading a book, and each time she went to turn the page she had to roll her shoulder carefully so as to not dislodge him. Parts of her arm were beginning to tingle, but she resolved to give him another half an hour before she shoved him off.  


He was healing well, though still restricted to the tower until the doctors said otherwise. Natasha had already made one trip to his craphole of an apartment in Bed-Stuy to drop off some dog-food and a gift-basket for the neighbour who was currently feeding his dog.  


'Are you drawing us?' Natasha asked, looking up as she heard the scratch of pencil on paper.  


Steve blushed a little and nodded.  


They'd all been spending more time together, in the aftermath of their last mission. Despite all having perfectly suitable suites at their disposal, for the first three nights they'd all slept next to each other in one room. Natasha had alternated between this room, and dozing in the chair by Clint's bedside up in the medical suite. It was a little like what having a slumber party must be like, with blankets and pillows over the floor and the sofas, and pizza, and Tony talking inanely until the early hours.  


Thor had seemed reluctant to return to Asgard, but he had gone that morning. Tony and Bruce had taken their lunch and were holed up in the labs, together. Which left Natasha with Clint, and with Steve.  


She tried not to change her posture now that she knew that Steve was sketching, vaguely aware of a need within her to sit up straight and to pose coquettishly, seductively. It would have been difficult, anyway, with Clint's head still weighing her down, and she knew where the need came from anyway. She wanted nothing to do with it.  


When he was done he turned the sketchpad around for her to see. It was a good likeness, captured quickly. She looked tranquil. She didn't recognise herself, even though all her features were there. Steve didn't ask for praise or critique, lowering the sketchbook at the sound of footsteps.  


'Barton? Where's Barton?'  


Tony whipped his head round the room, finally spotting Clint sprawled out next to Natasha. He looked annoyed, but wisely didn't try to wake him up himself - he'd learnt that lesson the hard way - appealing instead to Natasha.  


'Wake him up, will you? I need him to test something for us.'  


Bruce appeared after Tony. He exuded the same sort of impatient excitement, but he was keeping it better contained.  


Natasha tapped Clint lightly.  


_Tony wants you to test something_ , she signed.  


Clint scowled, rolling over to glare at Tony beyond the back of the sofa.  


'It'll take a second, well, not a second exactly, maybe more like five minutes. Here. Put these on.'  


He handed Clint two small objects; rounded, roughly the same size as a penny with loops of plastic on one side.  


Clint looked rather longingly at his current hearing aids, sat on the coffee table, and then back at the devices in his hand.  


He put them on. Tony made some adjustments.  


'They work,' Clint said, with a shallow shrug - he still had to contend with the broken ribs. 'What's so different between these and the old ones?'  


'I'm getting to that bit,' said Tony, fiddling with something on his phone. 'Ok. Can you hear this?'  


Natasha felt a soft throb in her ears.  


'Yeah.'  


'And this?'  


This time Natasha heard nothing.  


'Yup.'  


'And finally - the rest of you might want to cover your ears for this one...'  


'Stark, I swear to god if you knock out the last of my hearing--'  


'Trust me, Legolas. Ok. Three, two, one.'  


Even through the buffer of her hands Natasha heard a noise like nails on a chalkboard.  


'Nope, didn't hear it.' Clint looked around at everyone else, still grimacing.  


Tony grinned and looked at Bruce. 'Told you it'd work.' He looked back at Clint. 'Not only do these guys give you a wider than normal range of sound, they also block out potentially harmful frequencies. So next time some shrieking nightmare tries to take out your ears, I've got you covered.'  


'You think there'll be a next time?' Natasha said.  


'Well, doesn't hurt to be prepared.'  


He took the prototype aids back, and herded Bruce back towards the labs. Clint lay back down, shifting until he got comfortable. Natasha waited until he stopped moving before she tapped him on the nose and shoved a cushion between him and her arm.  


'You are very heavy,' she said, her former accent returning for a moment even if Clint couldn't hear it. Clint smiled up at her, and she knew he was remembering the last time she had said that; as she dragged him, bleeding from several bullet wounds - some courtesy of her, others of the third-party who seemed to want both of them dead - wondering why it was she couldn't quite bring herself to throw him off the pier into the freezing water as planned.  


'S'all muscle. Honest,' he replied, adding in the slight slur which had come with the blood-loss.  


Natasha was aware of Steve still watching them - it was probably a feeling he was used to, hearing people make jokes and references which he could not follow. She glanced up at him with a silent promise to share with him later.  


\--  


The next day Natasha went shopping alone.  


What Tony had said about being prepared had stuck with her, so she put on sunglasses and a blonde wig before telling JARVIS to let the others know she would be out for the next few hours.  


Her first stop was a home decor store which had exactly what she was looking for. If Clint had been with her she knew he would have looked at the prices and all but had an aneurysm, even though he had just as much money as her these days. To Natasha it was pretty much still just numbers, her basic needs had always been provided for, but Clint looked and saw cost and risk. How far will this guy be willing to chase me if I steal this? How screwed will I be in the long-run if I don't buy this medicine now? What do I need more: new boots or more arrows? Natasha considered for a moment before throwing in a couple of cushions as well; because they were soft and fluffy, and would go nicely with the sofa in her suite, and then, because money opened doors, arranged to have everything delivered to the tower later that day. She enjoyed the surprise on the clerk's face when she gave the address. Maybe he thought she was the girlfriend of one of the team, or Tony Stark's bit on the side. Natasha smirked at the idea.  


Next on the list was a craft store. At the first one she bought pack upon pack of needles and pins, and then had to go to another branch in order to get sealing wax.  


Her last stop was a small tea-shop which Bruce had recommended. She bought one-hundred grams of loose-leaf lapsang souchong for herself, and a box of earl grey tea-bags for the communal kitchen.  


Shopping finished, she took a taxi back to the tower, where her earlier purchases were already waiting.  


\--  


'Well, I'm getting some crazy deja vu right now,' Clint said.  


Natasha looked up from her work and smiled.  


She was sat cross-legged on the floor in her living room, elbows on the coffee table in front of her. A mostly empty teapot was sat at one end, next to a tea-cup with the dregs still in it. A rounded green glass bottle, slightly smaller than a wine bottle, was on the table in front of her. She was almost ready to seal it, and had the wax melting on a plate next to her.  


'Does this look like enough needles to you?' she asked.  


'Nope. Reckon you need another pack of those at least.'  


Natasha nodded and tore open a pack of plastic-headed pins and began dropping them one by one down the neck of the bottle.  


She heard Clint nudging the open box of four decorative coloured-glass bottles with his toe.  


'Hey, Nat, can I have--'  


'Knock yourself out. You owe me twenty-five dollars though.'  


Clint swore, picking up a squared bottle with ridges by the neck. He tossed it and caught it.  


'Be back in a sec,' he said, carrying the bottle in the direction of the bathroom.  


'Clean up after yourself. And wash your hands!'  


\--  


'We mention none of this to Stark,' said Clint, while they waited for the wax to dry. 'The guy already had enough material with the whole archer thing.'  


'That seems more like your problem, rather than mine,' said Natasha, reclining back on her new fluffy cushions. 'So what do we do with these things now?'  


'You're supposed to bury them under the floor, but Helga just sort of kept hers hidden in amongst her things. I was gonna just stick it in the bolthole in the back of my closet.'  


Natasha nodded. There were a few hiding spots she could think of just around her apartment.  


'Steve's talking about trying to recruit more magic users to the team,' Clint said. 'Which I'm all for, as long as they're not like Loki.'  


'Even if they are,' Natasha said, 'this time, we're protected.'  


Clint smiled. 'Yeah, I guess we are.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's that for the main story.  
> I'm gonna do an alternate ending more in keeping with traditional horror - where everything goes back to shit just before the credits.  
> Please do let me know what you think.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. This turned out a lot longer than I was expecting. So, I call this an alternate ending even though it pretty much follows on chronologically from the last chapter but it ends pretty badly for the Avengers.
> 
> Clint Barton gets the dubious honour of being the protagonist for this chapter, because it felt right. (It also meant I got to hurt him some more...*evil laugh*)

The first sign that things weren't alright was Lucky's growl when Clint opened his apartment door.  


'Gee, nice to see you too,' Clint said, kicking the door shut behind him.  


Lucky lowered his head and growled again, but softer, ending in a little whine.  


'Yeah, I know. I was gone for ages. But I'm back, and I got you pizza. See? Want some?' Clint showed him the unwrapped slice of pizza. He'd stopped specifically to get pizza for his one-eyed dog, not that he'd tell said dog that of course, but when he stepped forward to present his peace offering Lucky shuffled backwards.  


Clint stood looking at the dog for a few moments. He'd never acted like that before. Like he was scared of...  


Clint couldn't finish that thought.  


He stayed where he was until a meatball broke free from the string of cheese tethering it to the slice and splatted onto the floor. Clint sighed and put the rest of the pizza in Lucky's bowl.  


When he turned around he couldn't see the dog anymore. He'd expected him to be hoovering up the shed meatball, but he wasn't there.  


Clint's plans for the afternoon had involved him, his couch, Lucky and the tv. He knew Nat didn't approve of him letting his dog sit on the furniture, but he'd grown to appreciate Lucky's reassuring weight by his side, the occasional nudge from a damp nose, the gentle fore-paw in the gut when he wanted a belly rub and Clint wasn't paying attention.  


It looked like he'd have to watch tv on his own this time.  


\--  


Clint woke up all at once.  


He could sleep practically anywhere, and wake up at the slightest movement.  


He lay still at first, glancing towards the end of the bed to see if Lucky had come round from his sulk and was now lying next to his feet, but he was alone. Clint had taken his hearing aids out for the night, so he couldn't hear if someone was standing on the other side of his bed in the dark, but he could usually tell. He was nowhere near, say, Daredevil levels of compensatory sensory perception, but he did alright.  


No, he was alone in his room. And he had no idea what had woken him up.  


He lifted his head to glance at the clock. 00:27 AM. Could be worse. He still had plenty of time before he needed to be up.  


His ribs hurt, but not bad enough to have him reaching for the painkillers. His palm, however, itched like fury. Everything seemed to be healing nicely; as well and as quickly as could be expected for a normal, bog-standard unaltered human of his age and fitness, except for the one abrasion on his palm. He was still foggy about how he'd got it. He remembered getting on the wrong side of the Hulk's fists, and he remembered almost getting his brain scrambled by his own hearing aids, and when he closed his eyes and really tried to trace the threads he could sort of, maybe remember something clamping down on his ankle and the scrape of twigs and stones as it pulled him into the trees.  


He pressed lightly at the reddened skin under the bandage, and the itch urged him towards madness. Twice it had scabbed over, only for Clint to wake and find he'd rubbed it raw somehow in his sleep. It was still glossy and hot from the last time, little gritty pinpricks of scab forming once more and this time Clint was determined to let them run their course. He'd slathered it in ointments and kept it covered. If it carried on as it was, he knew he'd have to go to SHIELD medical to have it looked at. He couldn't risk infection, particularly not in his hands. He pushed the hand under the pillow, rolled over and went back to sleep.  


\--  


His scabs were still there in the morning. And Lucky was still avoiding him. The pizza and the errant meatball were gone though, so Clint had some hope of a reconciliation, even if he had to order pizza every night for a week.  


He did his physio exercises, cooked a simple stir-fry for lunch and stored the leftovers in the fridge. He rested, like he'd been told. He didn't go to the tower - after being shut up there for the best part of two weeks he'd been happy to see the back of the place. He didn't check his phone.  


\--  


He woke up with his head on the sheet below the pillow and his feet poking out from under the cover. Clint scrambled upright.  


The clock flashed 00.27AM.  


His palm was burning and damp. Clear fluid was seeping through the bandage. He reached for his hearing aids and put them in. The loudest sound was the panting of his own breath. He shouldn't have been panting like that. Clint focused on changing his breathing. His heart rate was elevated. He was sweating. He gave off every sign of having just woken from a nightmare, but he couldn't remember a thing. Usually there was a feeling left over - a sense of powerlessness and despair, the need to run, deep loathing like he just wanted the earth to swallow him up - but there was nothing. Just him and his breathing, and the burning in his hand.  


He kicked off the sheets as he sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. He groaned. He'd done it again, scraped his palm raw. The bandage was pink-tinged. He wondered what the medics would do, to ensure he didn't keep on re-opening the wound. After his accident, Lucky had had to wear a cone to stop him gnawing at his stitches. Clint wondered if they had something like that, for misbehaving assets who just couldn't help themselves. It wasn't like he was intentionally doing it. The sooner he was healed the sooner he could get back to shooting. If he couldn't shoot he was useless. He hoped they wouldn't bring the psych team into it. He'd had dealings with them before and he hadn't liked it. They asked questions and then they took the answers and they stringed them together into something else. And then there was the whole post-Loki ordeal. All Clint had wanted to do was to put himself back together; quietly and alone, but they'd just kept tugging and tugging, sifting through everything over and over until it all seemed more like a story than memory.  


There was an ache in his ankle. Clint stretched down and rubbed at the skin. As he moved he saw marks. At first he thought it was just shadow, but then he moved and the marks stayed where they were. They were bruises; narrow and finger-like encircling the joint.  


\--  


There were three missed calls, and one voicemail when Clint picked up his phone. He'd meant just to call Natasha, sat shaking in his bedroom with all the lights on, but he ended up tapping on the voicemail instead.  


'Hey, uh...'  


It was Tony's voice. Clint hadn't even checked before he'd started listening and he was surprised. Tony did not make a habit of phoning him. Clint couldn't recall the last time he had done.  


'...Damn I was really hoping you'd pick up. I don't know how to say this.'  


There was a sigh.  


'Could you, I don't know, check on your assassin buddy because she's scaring me? More than usual, I mean, like not in a good way. Really not in a good way. Just get over here when you get the chance. Bye.'  


Clint frowned. He looked through the missed calls. There was one dated before the voicemail. The last one was from just a few hours earlier. All from Tony.  


The strange bruise on his ankle suddenly seemed much less important.  


Clint dialed Natasha's number and put the phone to his ear.  


It rang. Once, then twice. Natasha was usually quick to pick up. For certain people, and Clint suspected he was one of those people, she'd answer no matter what she was doing. She might've been in bed with the most attractive person in the universe, climbing swiftly upwards to orgasm, and she still would've stopped everything to pick up the phone. Oh, she'd be pissed afterwards, sure. But she'd still answer.  


It was going to go to voicemail this time though, and Clint was already moving, dragging a pair of jeans towards him with his toe.  


He had them on when the call connected.  


'Nat?'  


Silence. Not even the sound of a breath, but the phone had stopped ringing and it wasn't telling him to call back or leave a message.  


'Nat?'  


He pulled the phone away to look at it. He saw numbers. 0:0:04. 0:0:05. 0:0:06.  


And then: Call Ended.  


Clint pulled on a shirt. He tried Tony.  


His phone was off.  


He tried Steve, then Bruce. Their phones just rang on, unanswered.  


He grabbed his bow and quiver, stuffed his phone into his pocket, and he ran. He didn't stop to lock his door, taking the stairs two at a time despite the pain in his chest as he rattled his ribs.  


On his way to the tower he tried Natasha again. The call cut off before he even had the chance to speak.  


\--  


Clint wasn't sure what he expected. For the elevator to be broken, or for the door to the Avengers section of the tower to be barricaded shut. He half-expected to see SHIELD, or maybe just the local police, because something was clearly very wrong.  


Instead he made it through unhindered. It was just like any other day except no one was answering their phones.  


The lights were all on in the first space he came to. Clint scanned quickly for signs of a struggle - none - and then for signs of life. He saw a mug of coffee sitting on a counter-top, and the contents were ice-cold. But no blood, no broken glass.  


'Uh, Jarvis?' And it didn't matter how many times he'd done this, he still felt stupid talking into the air. 'Where is everybody?'  


The lights flickered, but there was no answer. If Clint hadn't just heard his own voice he might have checked his hearing aids to make sure they were on.  


He nocked an arrow, his bow in a ready position in front of him. He was painfully aware of how screwed he was, standing there with his still healing ribs, without any of his body armour or even an arm-guard, and no idea what was going on. He drew the string back a little and, yeah, there was no way he'd be able to get it to full draw, not if he wanted to be able to move after his first shot. But it wasn't really so different to business as usual - the kevlar added a bit of reassurance, sure, but it was kinda like going up against a charging rhino with a couch cushion duct-taped to your middle when it came to the kind of things Clint normally did. Falling off a building in his uniform didn't feel a whole lot different to falling off a building without it. Shit still hurt.  


So why was he so damn scared right now?  


'Natasha? Tony?'  


He edged towards the corridor, waiting for an answer.  


The lights flickered again - madly, seizure-inducingly, fluttering like a trapped moth. Clint had an idea.  


'Jarvis, if that's you then stop--'  


The lights stopped.  


'Ok,' Clint sighed. 'I can't hear you, so, uh, flicker once for yes, twice for no I guess. That ok with you?'  


The lights dimmed once.  


Like an idiot he immediately started to ask where or what, before remembering he was stuck with yes or no questions.  


'Are the others alright?'  


The lights flickered once, then twice and then again and again and Clint started to wonder if JARVIS really was off and he had been talking to an empty room.  


'Just, stop a second...'  


The lights stopped.  


'Ok. I'll try something else. Is Natasha here?'  


One flicker.  


'Is she hurt?'  


One, then two.  


Clint swallowed.  


'Bad?'  


Again, the light dimmed twice.  


Clint breathed a sigh of relief.  


'Is there anyone else here, besides me and the other Avengers?'  


Two flickers.  


He frowned. 'So, why...Ugh. Ok, so who else is hurt? Tony?'  


Again there was a flurry of dimming and brightening, and Clint had the impression of JARVIS shouting at him from the digital void.  


'Steve?'  


The lights didn't respond straight away, but then came the answer. No.  


'Bruce?'  


Clint waited for a response, moving carefully towards the stairs. JARVIS may have told him there were no hostiles present, but JARVIS also didn't seem to be in the best of shape right now. When he still hadn't answered Clint wondered if he should add a third option - flicker three times for I don't have a fucking clue.  


'Is Bruce still here?'  


Maybe he'd gone out. Perhaps that was what the lack of response meant. The lights flickering twice seemed to confirm it.  


'And Tony? Is he gone too?'  


The lights went off, plunging Clint into darkness and then surged back on. Clint nodded. So, there was just Steve and Natasha to worry about.  


'Who am I closer to right now? Dim once for Steve, twice for Natasha.'  


The lights went off again, and only one came back on blinking. Once, twice, then another flash. Then more.  


'You're not being all that helpful right now, JARVIS,' Clint muttered. He pulled out his phone and decided to try calling one of them again. Best case scenario one of them picked up and finally talked to him about whatever the hell was going on; second-best, he heard the phone ringing in another room and he had somewhere to start looking. He had his finger hovering over Steve's number when he realised the flashing lights had a pattern. It didn't take him long to work it out. Morse code.  


_Go._  


Those same words repeated over and over, urging or pleading. Clint could have asked JARVIS what he meant, maybe gotten a proper answer from him. He could have asked him to repeat whatever it was he had tried to say before. He didn’t.  


Instead he raised the phone to his ear and tried to listen, ignoring the flickering which followed him. He could smell something, faint in the air. It smelt a little like when Tony left his soldering iron on too long. And there was another scent under it - something more familiar.  


Something crackled under Clint's foot. He looked down and saw a piece of paper, already crumpled, beneath his shoe. He could make out dark lines, scraped in charcoal, and as he stepped off the picture became clearer. He bent to pick it up and as he did the lights finally all went out.  


'Seriously, JARVIS?' Clint said. 'Turn the lights back on, please.'  


The lights didn't come back on. Instead they flickered in that same pattern over and over.  


Clint shook his head. He couldn't just leave.  


In the midst of the longer flashes he caught glimpses of the picture in his hands. Steve was the only one who drew, in any artistic manner anyway, so it had to be his. The paper was heavy sketchbook quality, but what was on it was unlike any of Steve's usual work.  


Harsh dark lines curved and intersected. Clint recognised bits and pieces - understood that what he was looking at was an animal of some description. There was the ridge of a spine, the shape of muscles. But all together it was...somehow wrong.  


Clint wanted rid of it. He crushed it into a ball, wishing he could burn it there and then but he settled for throwing it away. He could smell the charcoal on his hands, and that made him think of the other smell lingering in the air. Charcoal. Barbecue. Meat. That was it. It smelt kinda like the roof did when Grills was up there cooking sausages, except without whatever sauce or marinade it was he used. Just meat. Burning.  


\--  


He found another drawing torn in half at the end of the corridor.  


He was close to Steve's suite and, since he was one of the two people JARVIS had confirmed were there, Clint knew he had to check before he went on to Natasha's rooms.  


The drawing this time was in pencil, but again with those harsh, hard lines. It had broken the surface of the paper in some places, leaving smooth graphite scars in others. This one, or at least the part Clint could see, was of trees. Clint wasn't going to spend any longer staring at it, trying to see if there was a demon hidden in amongst the pines. He cast it down and looked around the next corner.  


JARVIS had refused to turn the lights back on for him, and Clint had had to resort to the flashlight on his phone. It was a decent flashlight, he'd give it that, but it was still annoying to be going at it like a two-bit urban explorer when there were working lights all around him. In fact, he could see light spilling out from Steve's door into the corridor.  


Clint wasn't sure why he didn't call out as he crept closer, why he turned off his flashlight and stayed close to the wall.  


There were more drawings, ripped into pieces and scattered across the carpet before the door. Clint didn't stop to look, peering round the door-frame and into the first room.  


Clint had seen crazy pasted on walls before. He'd been in flats where the windows had been papered over with newspapers until the room felt like a cocoon. He'd seen the homes of the terminally paranoid, walls studded with pins and photographs and all laced up with string from one thing to the next. Hell, he'd made a few of those DIY incident boards on his own walls before now. It was nothing like this.  


It was hard to believe the guy had only had two days.  


Because Clint had swung by the Captain's quarters on his way out to freedom, and it had not looked like this then.  


He dreaded to think how much paper had been used. A decent chunk of the rain-forest now had to be tacked onto Steve's wall.  


All the furniture which had been pressed up against the walls had been pulled out, allowing for maximum wall space. Every inch was covered with paper and with drawings. Sketchbook paper, lined paper, even nightmarish squiggles on the backs of receipts. Clint saw it all, and he wished he hadn't.  


When the wall had been full he'd started on the floor.  


Clint could see discarded pencil stubs, slips of charcoal and pastels scattered on the floor. At some point Steve had given up on paper entirely and had just started drawing straight onto the floorboards themselves.  


The light in the room came from a single floor-lamp which had been knocked over, cutting the room with shadows.  


Clint reached for his bow again, nocking an arrow before he stepped further into the room. Still he couldn't bring himself to call out. He listened, for the scrape of a pencil coming from another room or heavy breathing coming from a darkened corner. Cap would hear _him_ coming for sure, with those super-soldier senses. Clint was sure his heart was beating like a jackhammer, like a fucking beacon pointing out exactly where he was and that he was scared as hell right now.  


He couldn't keep putting it off.  


'Steve?'  


His mouth was dry but the words came out alright. His heart felt like it was in his throat already as he stepped past a bundled up rug and started to look in the next room.  


He didn't know how Steve managed to sneak up on him.  


For a man of his size and strength Steve could be pretty damn graceful when he wanted, but he still should not have been able to sneak up on Clint 'master assassin' Barton.  


The next thing Clint knew his feet were off the ground, he was up against a wall and it was getting hard to breathe.  


He dropped his bow when he tried to grab at Steve's wrist. Just the one wrist, and the one hand wrapped around his neck and holding him eye-level with Rogers. Clint tried to ignore the impulse to struggle.  


He wondered if there'd be a cover-up - if Captain America going insane and throttling one of his teammates would be too unpalatable for the public. Maybe, in fifty years, the record would be set straight and people would know what really happened to Hawkeye, but until then a lie.  


He could hear the paper at his back rustling, along with the pounding of blood in his ears.  


Steve was looking at him with a perplexed sort of expression; like he wasn't sure who Clint was or why he had him in a choke-hold. But he didn't let go.  


Clint suspected he didn't have long before he passed out, but he didn't know if Rogers would drop him when he went limp or if he would carry on until death. He could try hitting pressure points on Steve's wrist, but all the supersoldier had to do was squeeze and Clint would be dead in seconds.  


'I know you...'  


Steve's face creased in frustration.  


'I know you. You were there. With it. It took you. It tore you apart.'  


He recited it like a shopping list, like it was something he had to try and remember because he kept forgetting.  


'Yes. Yes that's it. It showed me.'  


The hold was loosening, and Clint was sliding down the wall. His toes touched the floor. Steve let go entirely and staggered back.  


'It showed me. I drew it. I left it...'  


Steve turned towards the nearest wall and ran his hands over the skin of papers. It was in one of the shadows, so Clint couldn't see what was on the paper.  


Cap had gone mad. And madness plus super-strength was not a combination Clint wanted another dose of.  


He was still dizzy as he rose to his feet, but he knew he might not have another chance in another thirty seconds or so, so he moved as quietly and as carefully as he ever had before in his life. Instinct told him to put an arrow in the back of Captain America's head while he had the chance, but whatever was happening, it was bound to be reversible, right? Clint just needed to get out of the room, to find Natasha, and then they could get Steve help. So he kept moving. One foot behind the other because there was no way he was taking his eyes off of Steve Rogers until he was out the door.  


Steve began tearing paper away from the wall.  


'No! No!'  


Clint was almost to the threshold when Steve sunk, sobbing to his knees. His head was in his hands and he looked the very picture of grief or despair.  


Clint held his breath as he darted out of the doorway and back into the corridor.  


He could still hear the crying even after he made his way into the vents and up towards Natasha's rooms.  


\--  


Clint kicked out the panel on the vent and tumbled into Natasha's main living space.  


The lights were off but Clint could see the glow of candles on the coffee table. He straightened up and saw the candlelight glinting off of red hair and saw the shape of a figure hunched by the table.  


The scent of burning was strong. Not the burnt meat stench from the other floors, but the sharp, toxic smelling odour he'd first noticed.  


There were scraps of singed fabric on the table in front of her, Clint could just make out.  


'Natasha?'  


He saw her head turn towards him. She'd done something to her hair - hacked pieces off with a knife or else torn them out.  


He could only see one side of her face in the candle glow, the pinpricks of light reflecting in her eyes. The edge of her mouth was pulled up in a pained smile.  


'I failed...' she said softly.  


There was something in her lap. She lifted it now and Clint saw the light catch on red hair and the stems of needles sticking out of a hempen body.  


'They don't work. Never worked. See.'  


She took a hatpin off the table and held up the doll. Before Clint could stop her she drove the pin into the face.  


'I feel nothing,' she said, even as blood dribbled down into her eye. 'They don't work. None of them.'  


She lay the doll down on the table and picked up another. Clint saw strips of red, white and blue fabric.  


'Useless,' Natasha said, holding the doll over the candle-flame.  


'Nat, stop...'  


She ignored him, and the flames caught. It must have burned her hand, and in the increased light Clint saw the wounds all over her. Punctures oozing blood, or scabbed and dried.  


'Stop,' he said again. The doll was making a strange noise, or else it was coming from somewhere else in the building. Clint looked again at the half-burnt scraps on the table and thought of the twin smells. He felt sick.  


'Stop.'  


This time he moved, making it to the table and snatching the burning doll. His right palm, the one with the stubborn wound, sang with pain as he dropped the doll onto the floor and tried to stamp the fire out.  


It crunched beneath his feet.  


Clint stopped and staggered back, almost falling.  


He was hyperventilating, and maybe he was surprised it had taken this long.  


'Clint,' Natasha sighed, as if she were talking to a disobedient child. 'It's not real. They don't work. Look, I'll show you.'  


She reached down and pulled a third doll from the space next to her.  


Clint wasn't sure exactly how it was that he recognised himself - there weren't really any distinguishing features, Nat hadn't made a little bow and quiver. He just knew. Like he knew when Natasha picked up the hatpin again what she was going to do.  


He lunged for her, but she rolled clear. One of the candles fell and went out. Clint landed on the floor, in the dark and as he tried to correct his position to try again Natasha plunged the pin down into doll.  


Clint screamed and clutched the side of his face. He felt blood trickling between his fingers. He looked up in time to see Natasha raising the pin once more, to strike the other eye, in time to beg her to stop, before everything went dark.  


'See, now?' she said, and Clint wanted to kill her. Actually _wanted_ to.  


He might have shouted at her, might have babbled about his eyes, because the next thing she did was to shush him.  


He felt her hands on his face and he lashed out in her direction. She was silent for a few moments, and then she started to hum softly. Clint didn't recognise the melody, but it sounded like a lullaby.  


Somehow he didn't sense when she moved behind him, reacted too slowly to stop her when she clapped her hands over his ears and plucked out his hearing aids.  


The world might've well been turned upside-down then. Clint forgot about the chairs and table, couldn't recall how many paces to the vent where he'd entered. There was just him and the pain in his eye sockets.  


If he'd tried he would've felt the vibrations as she moved, would've felt her sit down beside him, at the table with its remaining candles still lit. But he'd given up.  


The last thing he felt were the flames lapping at him.  


\--  


Across town Lucky emerged from his hiding place under the couch. He sniffed at his food-bowl, to see if his human had left him pizza again, but it was empty.  


Lucky sat down and whined.  


He missed his human.  


His human had not been the same when it had come back.  


He hoped his human would be home soon.  


With pizza.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it. I hope you enjoyed this descent into terror. Hopefully no one's too mad about what I did to Clint and if you are, well, then imagine that this last chapter is just a bad dream and everything's ok.
> 
> Please do let me know what you think~


End file.
